Man Facing Southeast Page #2

lacking all the other attributes

of a real person.

Why assume that a person who talks

about physics must be a physicist?

He could just know about certain

phenomena and make up a story.

Who'd use such information for

non-scientific purposes? What is he?

A writer.

A writer.

A writer or just a reader.

Reader?

Why did I think that?

Reader of what?

Fiction was not one of my interests, but

in Rantes' description of holograms

had a literary feel to it.

Someplace I had read something similar.

That business of projecting human

beings... In some book...

and I had it.

''I began to find unknown waves

and vibrations

and devised instruments to capture

and transmit them. ''

''Here's the machine's first component. ''

''The second records,

the third projects. ''

''It doesn't require screen or papers. ''

''If you open all the receivers,

Madeleine appears, complete,

reproduced, identifiable. ''

''Remember that we refer to images

extracted from mirrors... with sounds...

resistance to touch, taste, the smells,

the temperature,

perfectly synchronized. ''

''Morel's Invention. ''

Adolfo Bioy Casares, 1940.

If Rantes had written his story

instead of telling me,

he could have become a famous writer,

instead of the lunatic

I hoped to unmask.

Okay. Rantes could have been

a physicist

or read ''Morel's Invention. ''

But what would that prove?

Take it easy.

There are only two alternatives.

Either Rantes is crazy

or he's from another planet.

No, old man.

There cannot be

two alternatives.

- What is it?

- The report on Rantes' fingerprints.

- I don't understand.

- They're not on file.

He doesn't exist.

- Any explanations?

- A Uruguayan...

who suddenly turned up

here would have no records.

He always looks in

the same direction.

He always orients himself

in the same direction

between the water tank and

Pavillion 6.

What direction is that?

- Which way is north?

- There.

Then he faces towards the south.

South...

- Southeast... right?

- Yes, southeast.

Southeast.

And why not southwest?

Or north?

- Southeast.

- What does he say?

That he receives and

transmits information.

Whatever it is... on that line...

there must be some

clue to his past.

We're changing the medication

for the patient in bed 7, Rantes.

He is delirious and he's not improving.

We'll try to depress him.

I want a daily report, O.K.?

He's a good man,

he comes from far away.

Everyone seems to like you.

I thought about what you told me

that you couldn't feel.

What about that?

Can we chat?

How about some coffee?

My projection includes all

the information to do many things.

To play Bach... and other things

that would surprise you.

To me, it's only information.

Why do psychiatrists lean back

when they listen?

They think it's contagious?

Forgive me. It's just a habit.

Now, Rantes...

- You gave that patient your coat.

- He was cold.

What compelled you to give him

your coat?

- He was cold.

- Stop bullshitting me, Rantes.

You felt something for that man.

No, it's a totally rational reaction.

If someone is cold, I help.

You're programmed for that.

- Do you have hallucinations?

- No, you do.

I'm one of your hallucinations.

You're a complete lunatic.

But you're a very special lunatic.

You worry me.

You really do.

I appreciate your worrying about me.

It's not customary to care about

someone else here.

In this hospital?

On this planet.

What about yours?

Tell me about that.

Where did you live?

In a town?

In a city?

No data found. That information

is unavailable. Ask again.

I don't want to deceive you.

I could describe any town, any city...

That would be deceiving you.

It wouldn't be a town

as you understand it...

nor would it be

the past you're seeking.

You're my past... this moment...

this world.

You want to take me to man's past.

But how could you understand that?

Relax, Doctor.

What's worrying you?

If I were a dictator and could command

powerful armies, I could understand.

But I'm not.

I'm in an asylum.

Everyone knows that I'm crazy.

You, too, right?

Rantes, you're sick.

I'm a doctor.

I want to cure you, that's all.

I want you to understand me,

not cure me.

Even though he didn't believe it,

I tried to understand.

In fact, it was becoming my life's main

objective to understand Rantes.

He passed every test, as expected.

Sticking to his crazy beliefs, each time

more complex, more perfect.

The intelligence test rated him

as a genius.

No analysis showed any

physical abnormality,

all the results indicated

he was healthy.

Except for one detail... he claimed

to come from another world.

- We're seeing the circus?

- No.

I didn't have time to buy tickets.

- Where are we going?

- To the zoo.

Again?

What are you doing?

Keep still.

Sit straight. Leave that alone.

Waiter!

Here.

One steak!

- The steak!

- What?

- My steak?

- I put it there.

- Where?

- I left it there.

People are waiting!

- Did you take it?

- Where?

Time went by.

Rantes became just another shadow.

One of many...

acknowledged only by the priest,

who now had an incredible organist.

Rantes didn't exist,

except for me.

No other doctor acknowledged him.

At that time I was the only witness

to his existence.

If Rantes was crazy,

he was crazy only for me.

His delirium didn't diminish.

Apparently, he had avoided

taking the anti-psychotics.

I could have injected him.

For some reason, I chose not to.

Rantes' delirium was harmless

and for the moment, perfect.

I just had to wait.

I was sure that, at any moment,

he would make a mistake.

I want to ask a favor.

Would you arrange for me

to work in Pathology?

In Pathology? What would

you do in Pathology?

Let's say... cleaning... maintenance.

I see, you're bored.

You want to use your hands.

- What about the handicraft workshop?

- No, Doctor.

What would you have me make?

Wooden boxes that read

''Souvenir from Nuthouse''?

I'm not bored. I want to work

in Pathology.

You're my only friend

with any power here.

Sending a lunatic to work in Pathology

would make you a lunatic.

The cleaning story is a good pretext.

That's the pretext.

What's the real motive?

To investigate.

- Investigate what?

- Man's brain.

- Your brain?

- No, your brain.

I hate to disappoint you.

All signs indicate your brain is exactly

like mine or any other human's.

Then why are you considered sane

and I'm considered insane?

He sure seems like he's

from another planet.

He is a good man. Gentle.

O.K. Leave him with me.

On a conditional basis.

If he behaves, he stays.

He'll be useful.

It's the only way to get an assistant.

There's not even money for coffins.

The other day I sent out two corpse

in the same box.

Behold... a genius.

I wonder what made him go nuts.

When he dies, I get the autopsy.

You're a son of a b*tch.

Yes, it's mine.

- All these clippings...

- It's information.

- About what?

- About the world's deadliest weapon.

We know how to defend against

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes